Sunday, Sunday

I was hoping for sunshine this weekend. There was a tiny slice of it yesterday, just long enough to convince me that I should go ahead and plant my herb garden. Then the rain came. It's been cool and grey, that perfect combination of shade and temperature to inspire guiltless lethargy. I've been writing, on and off, in between watching old movies and napping. I've made some progress on the first play I've ever worked on. Getting it ready for another reader/editor had me cutting massive portions, reworking, and rewriting. (And yes, being very tardy in sending it on! Sorry!) Dialogue is tricky. It's made me think about the way we talk. No one ever really says what they mean. This, or they say too much for others to bear. This is what I struggle with, the telling of a story with nothing but funhouse mirrors.

My friends list is now contracting after a ridiculous expansion over the last several weeks. I assumed this would happen and have noted the change with not much more than a bit of relief. Oddly enough, I also find myself fighting twinges of guilt---as if I should have warned that I'm not nearly as [insert adjective of your choice here] as anyone might have imagined. I struggled with the change in readership for a while, internally. I wondered how the consciousness of so many more pairs of eyes would affect what I wrote. Turns out that it hasn't made much of a difference at all; it certainly hasn't made me any more interesting or enlightened. I am still very much who I was, a woman becoming. My journal also continues to be what it was, a chronicle of my journey. That it seems to still be mine in the most fundamental of ways makes me feel proud of myself.

Aside from making me lazy, the weather's left me feeling a bit peevish. Deadwood tonight, though. Old style western mayhem makes me so very, very happy.